


Safe as Houses

by LithiumDoll



Category: Inception
Genre: Gen, Humor, Post-Canon, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-13
Updated: 2010-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 02:10:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LithiumDoll/pseuds/LithiumDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur, Eames and Ariadne, stuck in a safe house. Bingo may or may not ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe as Houses

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Mitchy for the beta, all blame rests with Maharet83

When Eames starts making the small snuffling sounds of near-consciousness Arthur doesn’t exactly smile, but he ducks his head and turns just enough that the tiny lift at the corner of his mouth is mostly hidden.

_Mostly_, is the operative word.

Ariadne realizes Arthur has noticed her staring half a second before he asks, “Do I have something on my face?”

She rolls her eyes, doesn’t flush and isn’t particularly embarrassed to be caught. They’ve been in this cold, damp little safe-house for a week, at this point Ariadne’s pretty sure she’s been just as much entertainment value for them - probably more after that whole thing with the shower curtain.  

“No, you don’t, but you are quite hideous.” Eames’ voice is thick and muffled; he fell face down on the only bed in the studio apartment a couple of hours ago and hasn’t moved since. “Sorry to be the one to tell you, we can get you a bag if you want.”

“It’s awake!” Ariadne makes her way over to where Eames is sprawled and drops down next to his head. She ruffles already ruffled hair with a grin.

“It wasn’t asleep,” Eames grumbles and then he shifts a little to accommodate her; she steals his pillow.

Arthur snorts quietly. “Then it just went the longest time ever without speaking. Congratulations, you have my heartfelt disbelief.”

“You can’t begin to imagine how much that means to me.” Eames groans and stiffly drags himself up until he’s sitting slumped over on the edge of the mattress. “Anything?”

“Yes,” Arthur nods, but doesn’t glance up from the laptop screen. “Fifteen of McAdam’s goons broke in and killed us all while you were … resting your eyes.”

“Goons? Who says goons anymore?” Eames glares balefully over. “This is because I drank the last of the coffee, isn’t it?”

Ariadne pats him sympathetically on the shoulder and then pulls herself and the pillow up the bed until she’s resting comfortably back against the creaky headboard, knees drawn up to her chest.

They take it in turns to use the bed, not out of any particular sense of propriety, but because it’s barely two feet wide and there’s a spring dead center that Eames claims is just biding its time.

Otherwise, the room contains four dusty wooden chairs, a bookshelf with no books, a neon-orange veneered table and an oven so old that cooking on it qualifies as historical re-enactment.

Seven days holed up in this one little room, and all because someone didn’t keep their mouth shut.

“This isn’t my fault,” Eames says, on cue.

“I didn’t say anything,” Ariadne protests.

“You didn’t have to, Arthur’s looking stoic again.” 

Ariadne barely glances at their subject. “That’s not Arthur being stoic, that’s Arthur trying not to laugh.”

“Really? How can you be sure?” Eames looks with fresh interest as Arthur steadfastly ignores them both.

With everyone (_everyone_) else, Eames is able to translate the likely meanings of a barely raised eyebrow - it’s his job. When it comes to Arthur, he’s either at a complete loss or perversely enjoys pretending he is. Privately, Ariadne suspects it’s a little of both.

“He only looks away when he’s trying not to smile,” she explains, because either way she may as well play along. “Well, that or –“

Arthur closes the laptop with a sharp click and sends them both an irritated look. “It’s overdone, I know, but _I’m sitting right here_.”

“Yes, yes.” Eames waves a hand. “Don’t worry, you’re not disturbing us – carry on.”

Ariadne grins at the flicker of deep annoyance Arthur doesn’t quite manage to cover in time. “Oh okay, now he’s scowling. On the inside.”

“Not secretly amused?” Eames asks, as if they’re dissecting some particularly dense literature. “His expression says murder one, but his eyes say involuntary manslaughter.”

“I’m going out,” Arthur says between gritted teeth. It’s probably just as well they have to conserve bullets.

“You can’t go out,” Eames says calmly. “We’re hiding from goons, Arthur. _Goons_.”

“Your concern is touching, but I’ll take my chances. Anyway, someone drank all the coffee.”

“Trust me,” Eames calls after him, “what I drank was no longer coffee. And for God’s sake, if you’re risking life and limb anyway, pick up some milk - the other stuff’s walking.”

Arthur’s reply is succinct and non-verbal. When the door slams behind him, Ariadne waits a careful five-count before sliding her notebook out from its hiding place in her sleeve, opening it to a particular page and pencilling a neat little line through a neat little bingo square.

Eames watches her warily. “Do I want to know?”

Ariadne closes the pad carefully and slips it back up her sleeve. She smiles brightly and shrugs. “Everyone needs a hobby.”


End file.
